


Solitaire

by severinne



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Angst, Community: picfor1000, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-26
Updated: 2010-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-15 06:09:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/severinne/pseuds/severinne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>he was engrossed in the solitaire game on his dinette table, a twisted puzzle that seemed impossible to untangle without shattering it to crumbs among this morning’s meager breakfast.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Solitaire

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Challenge 8 at picfor1000 in response to [this picture prompt](http://pics.livejournal.com/severinne/pic/0000re5s/g15).

Maybe it was because this run-down block of flats was a figment of his comatose mind, but Sam could feel the bones of his erstwhile home within his own body now. He could feel the vibrations of window-glass and brick that alerted him to the visitor stalking the narrow corridor to his door, could feel his lonely flat shudder in time to his footfalls, attuned to the wary anticipation singing through his flesh.

Then again, he might have internalized the visitor too.

His door broke open, but Sam kept his head bowed; he didn’t need sight to confirm what he already knew. Besides, he was engrossed in the solitaire game on his dinette table, a twisted puzzle that seemed impossible to untangle without shattering it to crumbs among this morning’s meager breakfast.

He had found the playing cards in the back of his wardrobe whilst chasing a lost sock, more or less complete though it had taken a longer rummage to pluck a stray five and nine from between the warped joint work. The presence of the cards was a puzzle in itself, but playing his hands of solitaire reconciled their place in his room and illusion. He played his cards like he worked his job and wore his shirts: earnestly, but not without desperation.

Sam counted out another three cards from his reserve and glanced briefly at Gene from the corner of his eye. He stood close, waiting on the spot but Gene Hunt was never one for stillness. Breath charged him like a living engine, made all his open layers from coat to suit to unfastened shirt collar billow outward in threatening waves. Even the leather gloves held firmly in his hand were bristling expectantly.

‘What’s that?’ Gene hovered over him, seething with the musk of a dozen sweating boxers pouring off him in torrents, a scent that clawed at Sam’s nostrils like the stench of infidelity.

‘Canfield,’ Sam answered numbly, counting another reserve. He had never won at Canfield on his computer version, and was even less likely to win this round. There were still four cards missing from his damp-stained deck.

Gene grunted his displeasure. ‘Solitaire’s for sissies. You wanted a hand of cards, you should have come down to the pub.’

‘Rather not, thanks.’

‘Yeah, figured as much when you didn’t bloody well show up, didn’t I?’ With his head lowered, Sam’s eye caught the shuffle of white loafers against the worn carpet. ‘So, did you get the, um, thing on your desk today…?’

The nascent anger in Sam’s chest snarled at the question. ‘If you mean the scotch,’ he replied, gesturing carelessly towards the kitchen counter with his six of diamonds. An unopened bottle of obscenely well-aged Benromach peered out from a crumpled paper bag.

‘Waiting for me to show up before cracking her open, eh?’ The bracing hope in Gene’s voice made Sam stiffen in his uncomfortable chair.

‘Waiting for you to take it back, is more like.’ He kept his head bowed; he had finally turned up a red queen for that bastard king of clubs. In the ensuing silence, Sam scanned slowly for a black jack, knowing full well he hadn’t turned up yet.

‘Well,’ Gene huffed finally, his confusion plain beneath the bravado, ‘I suppose if you’d rather sit pretty and watch me drink it–’

‘I don’t want your bloody backhanders, alright?’ Sam slammed his handful of cards down on the table, scowling at the mess they made of his perfectly aligned game.

Finally, Gene went properly still above him, like a man turned to stone.

‘I don’t do that anymore, Sam.’

‘Yeah?’ Sam barked a harsh little laugh, struggling to deflect the painfully obvious hurt in Gene’s voice. ‘Bullshit. I know what that’s worth,’ he tossed his head sideways to indicate the Benromach, ‘and that’s no copper’s whisky.’

He finally deigned to glare accusingly upward at Gene, who avoided his gaze with a stiff shrug. ‘I know how to save up a few quid,’ he muttered sullenly through tightened lips. ‘When it’s worth it.’

It was Sam’s turn to look away, flinching with embarrassment and hating Gene for turning the tables so easily, for reminding him of how very bad he was at these things. Gene’s fingers caught him beneath his chin, tipped his face up for the sort of scrutiny that made Sam want to squirm in his chair had he not felt pinned down like some sad, brown butterfly.

‘Thought you knew me better than that by now.’

He said it soft and rough, too bloody sincere. Frowning, Sam let his gaze slide away again, which meant he missed the sudden sweep of Gene’s arm. He felt the crack of loose leather gloves slapping sharply across his face just fine, every bit as keenly as he felt an answering heat curling through his body.

‘Pistols at dawn, then?’ he murmured conversationally.

Gene dragged him to his feet, grappling his unresisting limbs and shoving Sam up against the wall, his right wrist captured in the tight knot of Gene’s fist.

‘Got your pistol right here,’ he growled, dragging Sam’s hand down. He swallowed tightly at the heavy press of Gene’s erection filling his palm through the straining flies of polyester trousers. ‘And I’m not waiting until bloody dawn, thank you very much.’

Sam surged in too quickly, their teeth clacking painfully in a demanding kiss that split the soft inner flesh of his lip. The salt of his own blood mingled with an unexpected sweetness in Gene’s mouth – the warmth of chocolate lingering from a quick Curly-Wurly, perhaps. He raked his tongue deeper into Gene, relishing the contradiction of his taste against the hard promise throbbing beneath his groping hand.

‘This mean you’ll be having your birthday present after all, Sammy?’ Gene asked, hips pushing insistently forward.

Sam smirked as he shoved Gene away, walked him the two steps backward to his bed. ‘Yeah, I think I will,’ he agreed breezily.

He wasn’t thinking about the scotch anymore.


End file.
